Therapy
by Heath07
Summary: Post Asylum, I suppose. The boys have issues. Dean. Second person POV.


Title: Therapy

Rating: PG-13 – Language

Author: Heath

Disclaimer: I don't own anything etc.

Summary: Post Asylum, I suppose. The boys have issues. Dean. (Second person POV.)

* * *

Another town. Another mystery. Another four-by-four cell and hard-ass mattress and some wise-ass cop looking to take you down—that is, when he's not looking at you like he's going to make you his bitch. And the guy looks like a kinky motherfucker. Sammy better hurry the hell up. The last thing you need is a repeat of Georgia. You're still having nightmares about that one. 

You roll your head to the side where it rests in the cradle between your arms and open your eyes. The halls are clear and there's no one around to tell you to shut up again. Whistling relaxes you; it's not your fault it gets on Tubby's nerves.

Speak of the devil.

"The sheriff wants to talk to you, boy," the deputy says, clicking a thick wad of gum between his thin lips.

"Must be my lucky day," you say, sitting up slowly. It's almost impossible to mask the wince as the pain sluices through you. Your chest still burns like a son-of-a-bitch. At least you taught Sammy something right: aim for your target and don't miss. He sure as hell hadn't missed. You've got a chest full of broken, bruised skin and scabbed over cuts to prove it.

The deputy roughly cuffs you and you don't miss the way his hands linger when he pats you down. Again.

The room is the same as any other precinct you've been in: four walls, wanted posters, water cooler and a small window. The pin has been hidden under your tongue for almost four hours. You're sure you'll never get the metallic taste of it out of your mouth. There's no point in worrying about it now, you'll be able to wash it away with a beer--or something stronger--as soon as you get out of this hellhole…as soon as Sammy shows up. _If_ he shows up. You wouldn't be surprised at this point if he left you in here to rot. After all, he had pulled the trigger. Multiple times.

The handcuffs are a joke. A simple twist of the lock and you're free, pushing the chair over to the wall. A noise to your right startles you. You look out the small slat in the interrogation room and make sure no one's coming.

"Dean. Dean!"

The window is open and Sam is there, waiting for you, ready to help you out. You can't help smirking. You'll never admit how glad your are to see him, how proud you sometimes are and how much you're dreading the day that he gets sick of you and leaves. Just like dad. You don't allow yourself to think about that, though. There's no time to think about such trivialities.

Rubbing your hands together, you step back onto the chair. "Ah, where there's a window, there's a way. When will these people learn?"

"Here, give me your hand," he says, reaching through the window, fingers outstretched.

You gladly take his hand and allow him to pull you up and out of the window. For a minute, you both rest on the sodden earth and allow yourself to catch your breath. Time is of the essence and you know another minute and your ass is going to get caught. Standing, you dust yourself off and pull Sammy along with you.

"What took you so long?" you whisper, as you navigate your way through the narrow alleyway and toward the car. "Another five minutes and Deputy Banjo Boy over there was going to make me squeal like a little piggy."

Sam chuckles.

"Well, next time, maybe you'll keep your mouth shut and you won't find yourself behind bars."

"Oh, come on! That cop had it coming to him."

"Riiight. I thought the objective was to evade the law. Gotta tell you, you kind of suck at that."

You stop, the car just up ahead, and turn to face him. "Hey, I saved your ass by getting locked up. Twice, I might add," you say, emphasizing your point by jabbing him in the chest with your finger. "We both know you're too fragile for prison, _Samantha_."

"Let's just get to the car before we both get arrested."

He follows close until you're both back at the car, looking over your shoulders to make sure no one's following.

"Dude, you know we have no money left, right? We're going to have to sleep in the car, unless you come up with a better idea," he says, then adds, "And you look like crap."

"I'd say pour a little salt in my wounds, but you've already done that."

You're mildly insulted, but you have no trouble hiding it. It's not like you've never slept in a car before. And how bad could you really look? It's just jealousy.

"You still pissed about that?"

The nonchalance doesn't fool you. He's itching to talk about it, but you can't give him the satisfaction. You don't do that. That talking thing. It's useless. And creepy. Not your style. At all. If things get too bad, there's always another monster or demon to take out your frustrations on. You don't want your kid brother to ever be your target…even if he doesn't feel the same.

"Nah, you know, I enjoy getting shot. Especially by you. There's something cathartic about it, don't you think?" Popping the trunk, you check on the supplies. Damn, you'll have to restock the ammunition soon. Pulling out a sleek .457, you examine the gun. It's out of bullets. You release the clip and methodically begin to stack the bullets into the empty space.

"Yeah, sure. And I'm the one in therapy?" he mumbles.

Your head snaps up. "Thera-Wait, what? You mean Dr. Freak Show wasn't your first brush with all this 'talking about your feelings' crap?"

He looks embarrassed.

He should be.

Sam shrugs.

"It was Jess's idea. I was having nightmares. She thought it would help."

"Whoa, whoa, we all have nightmares, but you don't see me running to Dr. Ruth."

"I did it for her. It's no big deal."

Your attention wavers from carefully reloading the gun.

"The hell it isn't!"

"What's your problem?"

The anger is quick to come. It has been building since the day Sammy left you and sooner or later it's all going to come out. You're not quite prepared for that today.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that while dad and I were traveling the country, risking our lives, you were in some cushy doctor's office bearing your soul about how horrible your life was."

He sighs.

"It wasn't like that."

You narrow your eyes.

"Then how was it? Didn't I look out for you? Wasn't I there whenever something went wrong, protecting you?"

"Okay, yeah, you protected me, but that doesn't mean that the things we've seen, the things we've done… They affected me, Dean! And my dreams…" He stops, shakes his head and, not for the first time, you wonder if he hates you and everything you stand for. It hurts more than you're willing to admit. "No, I needed the kind of help that you couldn't give me."

"Fine," you say and school your emotions. Sometimes, like now, Sam's more of a stranger than he is your brother.

"Fine? That's it? No big speech? No reprimands?"

What good would it do? What could you say to contradict him? You're always going to be less in Sammy's eyes. You don't have any fancy degrees or cool college buddies--or any friends at all. Hell, you barely know how to talk to people when you aren't trying to gather facts or get laid. What do you know about real life? If it doesn't involve something supernatural, you're lost. This is all you know. This is your life.

His eyes are trained on you. You can feel it. Sammy's not the only one with 'gifts.'

You cock your gun. It's fully loaded and ready for the next thing that goes bump in the night. "Nah, Sammy, not this time. You have your therapy, I have mine."

--End--


End file.
